


a thousand years in perfect symmetry

by malfaisant



Category: Marvel Ultimates
Genre: M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-01
Updated: 2013-02-01
Packaged: 2017-11-27 18:02:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malfaisant/pseuds/malfaisant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're twins and they're brothers and they're two sides of the same damned coin, flipped and palmed and it was all a sleight of hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a thousand years in perfect symmetry

**Author's Note:**

> set in Ultimates-verse, with references from Ultimates vol. 1 and 2, up 'til Avengers vs. New Ultimates. italicized dialogue is borrowed directly from canon (with some minor tweaking).

**1.**

The first time it happened was directly after Howard's funeral.

Which, haha, probably just made it more wrong, and maybe that's why it happened when it happened. They were twins, they were brothers, and most of all they were Starks, and something as pedestrian as sibling rivalry would be far too simple for the two of them.

Not that they didn't have that too, it should go without saying. Their dead father promised them both the world, half and half, but he never taught them how to share.

There had been more flowers than people at the actual funeral, mourners sending in their condolences in the hopes of keeping within Stark Industries' good graces, but not mournful enough to actually show up.

The room was dark except for the night lights from the city below them. Tony closed the door behind him and walked over to his desk, right next to where his brother was standing in front of the glass walls of the penthouse. His back was to the entrance, hands in his pockets, blonde hair combed back as always, because Gregory is a fucking sleaze.

"You didn't attend the service," Tony said.

Greg gave no indication that he heard Tony at all, and merely continued looking out at the skyline.

Tony tried again. "Why are you in my tower?" he sing-songed.

 _That_  got a response. Greg visibly bristled, and the glare he aimed at Tony could kill him ten times over if only Greg had discovered how to weaponise those. (He hasn't yet but Tony thinks it's only a matter of time.)

 "It's your tower now, isn't it?" Greg's reply was mocking, barely restrained anger in every note of his voice. "Dear old dad is dead."

"You should've come. One of the SI board members gave the eulogy, it was hilarious. 'Loving father' and the works," said Tony, flinging his coat on the desk and shaking rainwater out of his damp hair. "I think they drew lots and he drew the short stick."

Greg laughed mirthlessly, before stalking towards Tony and grabbing him by the collar. The action was so sudden that Tony didn't realise what had happened until he was pressed up against the cold, unyielding glass.

The point was, after their father's death, it was almost as if some hitherto uncrossable line had dissipated. It's weird, and not like Tony, because he didn't care about what Howard disapproved of, not back when he was planning to build a whole separate life with Jenny, and certainly not now when the old bastard had upped and died.

So maybe, Tony thought as he winded the silly white tie around one hand, pulling his brother even closer, tightening the makeshift noose around his throat, maybe the line was Greg.

"Why did he give the company to you?" he growled, all gritted teeth and anger, and was that whiskey on his breath? Which is probably the most surprising, because Gregory never had the same, excessively healthy appreciation for alcohol that Tony did.

Tony had never seen his older brother so uncomposed, and he gave him his best, most cruel smile. "Probably cause I'm better looking."

They're both 25, and this is long overdue; Tony half-suspected that it was either this or kill each other.

Greg kissed him, rough and pressing him against the glass with his body, and Tony gave as good as he got, teeth against his neck, bites on his collarbone, spiteful laughter into his mouth and down his throat.

Greg unbuttoned his shirt carelessly, buttons popping off, and in retaliation he wrapped his leg around his waist, trying to get the mud on the sole of his shoes onto his brother's trousers, moaning into his mouth. Greg's awful, pristine white suit looked so bright next to Tony's funeral attire, so easy to mock and ruin.

Prim, proper, ruthless Gregory.

Older by twenty minutes, and acted as if they were years. The concentration of his father's ambitions and condescensions, with all of (he would grudgingly admit, maybe at knifepoint) Tony's cunning and genius. But definitely none of his fashion sense.

And mother always did like Tony better. Take  _that_ , asshole.

**2.**

It goes on like this, because neither of them knew how to concede, and it was a natural evolution of their irredeemably fucked up relationship. They turn older, year after year, and Gregory was better than his brother in all important respects, older and richer and with far superior tech, but he hasn't won this yet, though they're both keeping tally.

It was only a game. It's messy and inconsistent and frustrating, but it's a game and neither of them will never back down.

There is nothing gentle or sentimental about it, about this—they fuck, hard and fast, and Gregory knew well enough not to examine his motivations too closely. Whether it was petty cruelty, or revenge on outbidding the other over a military contract, or simply just the hell of it, the reasons didn't matter. He just needed to win. That was only ever his reason.

Tony, on the other hand, said they used this to commemorate special occasions, but then again, Tony was nothing if not an unrepentant, self-destructive hedonist.

Gregory was jolted out of his thoughts as Tony moaned on the downward thrust, riding his cock, practically sitting in his lap as he took him to the hilt. Gregory leaned against the headboard, Tony's knees on either side of his lap, his hands on Tony's biceps, and he used that leverage to control his movements, setting a merciless rhythm.

Greg always topped, but it was an unspoken agreement between the two of them, it was only because Tony _allowed_ it, because Greg was older than him. That was the only concession that Tony ever gave him, what those twenty minutes are worth.

Greg absolutely hated his brother.

Even with only the lights of the city washing in from the windows, he could see Tony's face, flushed red, his eyes hooded, two bright points in the darkness. His hair was damp with sweat on his forehead.

Tony must've known why he came tonight, because even he knew better than to put anything he wanted kept secret on his Stark Industries personal server. If he didn't want Gregory to know about his condition, well, Gregory would find out regardless, but it would have taken at least half a year more before he did.

His little brother was weak-willed and naive, lacking in resolve.

His little brother was dying.

"Fuck," Tony panted, his arms pinned to his sides, but that didn't stop him from leaning forward and pressing his mouth against Gregory's, sliding his tongue down his throat, taking the last of his breath as he fucked harder and deeper into him. His cock was bobbing up and down and leaking against his abdomen, Tony moaning shamelessly with each thrust. The sound he made as Gregory wrapped his hand around the head of his cock was positively agonised and absolutely broken.

Five years to live, at the most optimistic estimates. Gregory blamed Tony for a lot of things, and this was no exception.

Tony came first, and Greg felt it before it happened, Tony's whole body becoming taut as he spilled all over his hand, but his hips didn't slow, continuing to ride him through his orgasm, making pained little whimpers as he did so, and it was all too much and he couldn't hold out anymore—

Their panting breaths are indistinguishable in the dark, and Gregory honestly couldn't admit which one of them won this round.

**3.**

She was nailed to the hospital wall with arrows through her palms and between her green, green eyes, and Tony didn't know whether to be angry that Clint killed her, or that he got to fire the killing shot.

But then again, what right did he have to be angry, when Natasha didn't take anything from Tony that he didn't freely give her?

He'd woken up that morning, thrown on a robe, did his usual routine of throwing up last night's dinner, and rung the bell for his normal breakfast of coffee and pills, when a stranger walked into the room, an austere-looking woman carrying a tray. Then he remembered Jarvis was dead, and Tony didn't know whether to thank Pepper for having already assigned a replacement.

He took the coffee and the pills, and then he fired her. Then he called up the house AI to forward the most recent work files to the home server.

He spends hours immersed in work, SHIELD data statistics on the Liberators' invasion scrawling down the computerised glass walls of his bedroom, news reports and interrogation transcripts and international responses, damage estimates, projected numbers of civilian dead. He looked at Triskelion schematics post-invasion, retained structural integrity, possible improvements to its architecture and defense systems. Profiles of dead agents and possible defectors. Urgent communication from Fury.

Standing in front of the glass, the pale lights of the data on the walls cast an eerie glow on his skin.

Her red hair really was beautiful.

The dull ache in his head was getting unbearable, even for him. He rubbed at his eyes, trying to will the pain away by pointedly ignoring it, that maybe if Tony didn't pay it any attention the headache might find something else to do.

He poured himself another drink, and the tinkling of the bottle neck on the rim of the glass and the ice cracking were the only noises in the room that Tony could hear.

That must've been how he didn't hear him approach at all, his footsteps muffled by thick carpet. Or maybe Tony was drunker than he thought? He didn't hear the door open. How long had he been there?

"I warned you never to let anyone in, little brother," Greg whispered against the back of his bare neck, his hands settling on his hips. "That's the first lesson we were both taught."

Instead of answering, Tony leaned back against him, tilting his head to the side to expose his neck against Greg's mouth. There were still marks there, because the chemo made him bruise easy and Natasha always liked to use her teeth.

"You always did have awful taste in women," he murmured. Greg's mouth followed the line of his pulse up his neck, eventually reaching the shell of his ear, which he took between his teeth, his tongue warm and wet. He could feel the warmth of his older brother's hands through his thin silk robe as they crept up his waist, to untie the knot of the sash.

"Did you truly love her?"

Tony was completely naked underneath, and Greg splayed his fingers on his chest, nails trailing down his stomach.

"It's unlike you to be so quiet, Tony," he whispered in his ear. "I didn't even know you were capable of such sincerity."

Tony laughed and brought a hand back to grab a fistful of Greg's hair, their bodies pressed together, back flushed against Greg's chest. "I didn't either."

"I can cut out your heart so it won't hurt anymore," Greg said.

"It's not like you to be so kind," Tony murmured. Greg took him in hand, gripping around the base of his half-hard cock. Tony hissed through his teeth and let out the smallest of moans, leveraging himself on the table in front of him. He leaned forward, rested his palms on the table, and thrust into Gregory's tight grip. "Or at least, there are more effective ways to say 'I-told-you-so' than handjobs."

"You're a fool if you think kindness plays in to any of this."

"Brotherly love, then?" he retorted, his words turning into a breathless gasp halfway as Greg pushed a finger in him, dry and completely without warning.

He could feel that sharp smile back against the back of his neck, and for one irrational second, Tony was convinced it would slice his throat open. "Don't insult me."

Tony grit his teeth, biting back groans, letting the dull cloud of alcohol take him down, the last tendrils of sobriety giving way to arousal. "Now that would be just too unlike me, darling brother."

Greg only curled his fingers in response, or as punishment, because Tony's sure Greg just never really fully grasped the nuances between the two. He alternated his strokes between brutally efficient and tortuously slow, rough and not-slick-enough and perfect, keeping Tony on edge as he fucked him with his finger, then two, and it was all he could do to keep standing. His fingernails scratched lines into the polished wood of the table, his head thrown back, fitting into the crook of Greg's shoulder, Greg's teeth on his neck, his body singing from overstimulation, because none of this is gentle. Because they were brothers, and this was cruel and painful and humiliating and the only comfort either of them knew how to give.  

**4.**

_"It looks like I need to go and kill my brother now, General Fury. Your lucky day I guess."_

Gregory looked over the burning city of Pyongyang and smiled to himself.

This was the way to ensure peace, manipulate these pathetic little countries into democracy and follow SHIELD's lead. It was what SHIELD always did, could always have done, except he had the tenacity and acumen to actually come up with a plan that would work. He'd followed through. It wasn't anything like his little brother's petty attempts at saving the world. His schoolboy heroics paled in comparison to Gregory's plan to save this world.

_"Shut up and stop with your creepy megalomania, Greg. You're just coming across as weird."_

He crushed the Ultimates under the heel of his boot, the world's greatest superheroes falling before his might.

_"Get out of the way and I'll maybe let you live. Mess up my plan and I'll put you in the ground, little brother."_

The smoke of crumbling buildings swirl around them as Tony walked towards him, red-and-gold armor, light at the center of his chest. Half his faceplate had cracked off, his face bruised, his dark eyes gleaming with anger.

A burst of light and words and the whine of repulsors, and this fight was only another familiar form of how they coped with each other's existence.

Tony fell to the ground, crumpled in his shell, blood at the corner of his mouth. He was beaten, and Gregory had won.

Greg idly thought that Tony always looked good on his knees.

_"You think that's going to stop me? Your stupid little 4.0 armor? I've got ten years on anything you're packing in there. Weapons you don't even have a name for yet. What have you got? Pulsar-beams? Booster jets?"_

But it was wrong. It was all wrong. Tony was smiling, even in defeat. Why was he—

_"Don't forget my electromagnetic pulse."_

The nanites in his blood paused. The glow at his fingertips died.

The last thing he registered as Thor's lightning burned a hole through his chest, frying every nerve in his body, were Tony's wide disbelieving eyes.

It had all been in the name of peace. Crushing Tony at his own game was just a side-benefit.

_"Oh my god, look what you've done to him! What the hell were you thinking?"_

His voice sounded broken, and in his last moment of consciousness, Gregory thought he should find whoever made his little brother sound like that. It's what mother would've wanted.

**5.**

He'd been attending far too many funerals lately, the same grey church, the same wooden pews and lighted candles. Even the mourners looked the same, their faces blurring together into an amorphous, all-black haze.

Gregory's skin had been charred black, and all Tony could register at the time was the stinging smell of burning flesh. His ears rang with white noise.

It was the same priest officiating the service, or looked like him enough that Tony couldn't tell. He didn't really care. Even faced with incontrovertible proof, the only god Greg worshipped was his own ego and intellect, but Tony's not the type to throw stones at something so irrelevant.

_"I meant stop him, not kill him, Thor!"_

Tony dug his fingernails into his palms, trying to keep from screaming as the priest's voice droned on, wishing mercy on the soul Greg never even pretended to have.

They're twins and they're brothers and they're two sides of the same damned coin, flipped and palmed and it was all a sleight of hand.

But this was never part of the rules. It was only just a game.

Because dying before him was Gregory cheating, one last laugh at Tony's expense.

Tony buried the bastard in all-black, just to fuck with him.


End file.
